We, the unborn,
[Heap curses on your heads,
Men of the age of Madness.
Hope of the the future stillborn,
Blighted fruit of your dreads,
Posterity accursed are we,
To centuries of sadness.

Small was the thought you gave
To us, the men of tomorrow.
Five thousand years of grief are in your seed,
And we will revile and desecrate your grave,
You, who in your fear and greed,
Bequeathed us sorrow.

For Mothers of the future, fear in their eyes,
Abort unspeakable mutations,
And decimated man, born to sighs,
Will dread the dwindling generations,
Weakly and fearful, sick with the doom
Of hard radiations.

H. St.Vincent Beechey
April 1955